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But misery is very apt to talk :
I thought I might be heard.

C. Bald. What can you say?

Is there in eloquence, can there be in words,
A recompensing pow'r, a remedy,

A reparation of the injuries,

The great calamities, that you have brought
On me and mine? You have destroyed those hopes
I fondly raised, through my declining life,
To rest my age upon; and most undone me.
Isa. I have undone myself too.

C. Bald. Speak it again;

Say still you are undone; and I will hear you,
With pleasure hear you.

Isa. Would my ruin please you?

C. Bald. Beyond all other pleasures.

Isa. Then you are pleased-for I am most undone.
C. Bald. I pray'd but for revenge, and Heav'n has
heard,

And sent it to my wishes: these grey hairs
Would have gone down in sorrow to the grave,
Which you have dug for me, without the thought,
The thought of leaving you more wretched here.
Isa. Indeed I am most wretched-

I lost with Biron all the joys of life:
But now its last supporting means are gone.
All the kind helps that Heav'n in pity raised,
In charitable pity to our wants,

At last have left us: now bereft of all,
But this last trial of a cruel father,

To save us both from sinking. Oh, my child!
Kneel with me, knock at nature in his heart:

[Both kneel to him.

Let the resemblance of a once-loved son
Speak in this little one, who never wrong'd you,
And plead the fatherless and widow's cause.
Oh, if you ever hope to be forgiven,

As you will need to be forgiven too,

Forget our faults, that Heaven may pardon yours! C. Bald. How dare you mention Heaven? Call to mind

Your perjured vows; your plighted, broken faith

To Heav'n, and all things holy; were you not

Devoted, wedded to a life recluse,

The sacred habit on, profess'd and sworn,
A votary for ever? Can you think

The sacrilegious wretch, that robs the shrine,
Is thunder-proof?

Isa. There, there, began my woes.
Oh! had I never seen my Biron's face,
Had he not tempted me, I had not fall'n,
But still continued innocent and free
Of a bad world, which only he had pow'r
To reconcile, and make me try again.
C. Bald. Your own inconstancy
Reconciled you to the world:

He had no hand to bring you back again,
But what you gave him, Circe, you prevail'd
Upon his honest mind; and what he did
Was first inspired by you.

Isa. Not for myself-for I am past the hopes
Of being heard-but for this innocent-
And then I never will disturb you more.

C. Bald. I almost pity the unhappy child:

But being yours

Isa. Look on him as your son's ;

And let his part in him answer for mine.

Oh, save, defend him, save him from the wrongs

That fall upon the poor!

C. Bald. It touches me

And I will save him-[Snatches the child's hand.]—But

to keep him safe,

Never come near him more.

Isa. What! take him from me?

No, we must never part ;-[Pulls the child away from him]-'tis the last hold

Of comfort I have left; and when he fails
All goes along with him: Oh! could you be
The tyrant to divorce life from my life?

I live but in my child,

No, let me pray in vain, and beg my bread
From door to door, to feed his daily wants,
Rather than always lose him.

C. Bald. (R.) Then have your child, and feed him with your prayers. Away!

Isa. Then Heaven have mercy on me!

[Exit, with child, L. C. Bald. You rascal slave, what do I keep you for? How came this woman in ?

Samp. [Both advance.] Why, indeed, my lord, I did as good as tell her before, my thoughts upon the matter

B

C. Bald. Did you so, sir? Now then tell her mine: Tell her I sent you to her. There's one more to provide for. Begone, go all together. Take any road but this to beg or starve in, but never, never see me more. [Exit into his house. SAMPSON and NURSE remain a short time at c. then exeunt, L. weeping.

END OF ACT I.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-The Street.

Enter VILLERO., R. and CARLOS, L. meet at c
Vil. My friend, I fear to ask-but Isabella-
The lovely widow's tears, her orphan's cries,
Thy father must feel for them?- -No, I read,
I read their cold reception in thine eyes-

Thou pitiest them-though Baldwin-but I spare him
For Carlos' sake; thou art no son of his.
There needs not this to endear thee more to me.
[Embrace.

Car. My Villeroy, the fatherless, the widow,
Are terms not understood within these gates-
You must forgive him; sir, he thinks this woman
Is Biron's fate, that hurried him to death-

I must not think on't, lest my friendship stagger
My friend's, my sister's mutual advantage,

Have reconciled my bosom to its task.

Vil. (R. C.) Advantage! think not I intend to raise An interest from Isabella's wrongs.

Your father may have interested ends

In her undoing; but my heart has none;

Her happiness must be my interest,

And that I would restore.

Car. (L. c.) Why, so I mean.

These hardships, that my father lays upon her,
I'm sorry for, and wish I could prevent;

But he will have his way. Since there's no hope
From her prosperity, her change of fortune

May alter the condition of her thoughts,

And make for you.

Vil. She is above her fortune.

Car. Try her again.

Women commonly love According to the circumstances they are in.

Vil. Common women may.

No, though I live but in the hopes of her,
And languish for th' enjoyment of those hopes;
I'd rather pine in a consuming want

Of what I wish, than have the blessing mine,
From any reason but consenting love.
Oh! let me never have it to remember,
I-could betray her coldly to comply:

When a clear gen'rous choice bestows her on me,
I know to value the unequall'd gift:

I would not have it, but to value it.

Car. Take your own way; remember, what I offer'd Came from a friend.

Vil. I understand it so.

I'll serve her for herself, without the thought

Of a reward.

Car. Agree that point between you.

{Crossing to L.

[Exit, L.

If you marry her any way, you do my business.
I know him-What his generous soul intends
Ripens my plots-I'll first to Isabella.-

I must keep up appearances with her too.

[Exit, R.

SCENE II.-A Room in ISABELLA's House.

ISABELLA sitting, and NURSE discovered. ISABELLA'S Son at play on her R.

Isa. Sooner, or later, all things pass away,
And are no more. The beggar and the king,
With equal steps, tread forward to their end;
The reconciling grave

Swallows distinction first, that made us foes;
Then all alike lie down in peace together.
When will that hour of peace arrive for me?
In Heav'n I shall find it. Not in Heaven,
If my old tyrant father can dispose
Of things above. But there his interest
May be as poor as mine, and want a friend
As much as I do here.

Nurse. Good madain, be comforted.

[Weeping.

Isa. [Rises.] Do I deserve to be this outcast wretch,

Abandon'd thus, and lost? But 'tis my lot,
The will of Heav'n, and I must not complain :

I will not for myself: let me bear all

The violence of your wrath; but spare my child :
Let not my sins be visited on him:

They are; they must; a general ruin falls
On every thing about me: thou art lost,

Poor Nurse, by being near me.

Nurse. I can work, or beg, to do you service.
Isa. Could I forget

What I have been, I might the better bear

What I am destined to. Wild hurrying thoughts
Start every way from my distracted soul,
To find out hope, and only meet despair.
What answer have I?

Enter SAMPSON, L.

Samp. Why, truly, very little to the purpose: like a Jew as he is, he says you have had more already than the jewels are worth: he wishes you would rather think of redeeming 'em, than expect any more money upon 'em. [Exit SAMPSON, L, Isa. So:-poverty at home, and debts abroad! My present fortune bad; my hopes yet worse! What will become of me!

This ring is all I have left of value now;

"Twas given me by my husband; his first gift Upon our marriage: I've always kept it

With my best care, the treasure next my life:

And now but part with it to support life,

Which only can be dearer. [Takes off the ring.] Take it, Nurse,

"Twill stop the cries of hunger for a time;

Take care of it:

Manage it as the last remaining friend

That would relieve us. [Exit NURSE, L.] Heav'n can only tell

Where we shall find another [goes back and sits.] My

dear boy'

[Embraces him

The labour of his birth was lighter to me
Than of my fondness now; my fears for him
Are more than, in that hour of hovering death,
They could be for myself-He minds me not,
His little sports have taken up his thoughts:
Oh, may they never feel the pangs of mine!
Thinking will make me mad: why must I think,

[Rises

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